


Sorry Not Sorry

by becausenobreeches (crucibulis)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:46:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crucibulis/pseuds/becausenobreeches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr kink request: Accidental stimulation (proximity and friction; involuntary arousal; situations of adrenaline and reflexes)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorry Not Sorry

“Ugh, sorry I’m late.” Milo plops down onto the bench next to Dorian, flashing a smile that will get him forgiven for just about anything.

“Just as sorry as we are, that we started without you,” the Iron Bull replies, raising his mug towards the Inquisitor before knocking back some more ale.

“According to Josephine, punctuality is important. Of course that only applies to _her_ meetings,” Milo grouses through a smirk. Meanwhile, one of his hands surreptitiously graces over Dorian’s wrist where it sits in his lap. 

Dorian turns to look at him with an arched brow. “Having a drink at the tavern hardly counts as a _meeting,”_ he points out.

“Speak for yourself,” Bull interjects. “As a merc, drinks at the tavern are about as formal a meeting as we ever have.”

“Well there you have it,” Milo concurs. Without any acknowledgement to what he’s doing, he squeezes Dorian’s wrist firmly, imitating a familiar form of impromptu restraint, and then begins tracing along the bony joint with feather-like touches. “Besides, I should set a good example for the troops, when I’m meeting with them to gauge morale. How _is_ your morale, Iron Bull?” he asks, only mock-serious.

“Fucking amazing,” the qunari rumbles happily.

But Dorian hardly hears their conversation now, his whole body reacting and honing in to the simple touches of Milo’s fingers. A breath gets caught in his lungs; suddenly he can feel his heartbeat in his cock. Milo isn’t a mage, has absolutely no magical talent to speak of, and yet he’s nearly figured out how to set Dorian’s skin on fire, and send sparks into his very bones. No lover has ever touched him like this, especially not in public, and it’s driving him crazy.

Milo’s fingers trace along the ridges of Dorian’s hand, slowly brushing his knuckles with the soft pads. By the time Milo slots their fingers together and squeezes, Dorian is half hard.

It’s infuriating. It’s sexy as hell.

He avoids eye contact with the Iron Bull across the table, not wanting the qunari to see the way his pupils have blown, the way his cheeks are burning with a dark flush. Milo carries on with their innocuous conversation, trading easy banter with the Bull as if he were up to nothing at all.

Milo pulls his hand away then, and relaxes back into the bench, slinging his arm on the back of it behind Dorian’s shoulders. He spreads out as if comfortably claiming the space, letting one warm knee come to rest against Dorian’s knee underneath the table, and Dorian has to grab his glass of wine and take a very deliberate drink of it, hands trembling and his eyes closed. How long has it been since they fucked… a couple of days? What the fuck is wrong with him?

Then mercifully, the Bull is getting up to go over to talk to Cabot at the bar, leaving the two of them there at the booth alone. Milo turns to beam at him and startles a bit when he sees Dorian’s seething scowl.

“I hate you,” he hisses, letting his glare turn lustful when the smile starts to slide from Milo’s face.

“What’d _I_ do?” Milo mopes innocently.

Dorian can’t answer with words, just motions to his crotch with a sharp movement of his kohl-lined eyes. Then back up to Milo, whose own gaze follows down to the tent in Dorian’s trousers.

Milo licks his lips as his eyes widen, and he _stares_ at Dorian’s erection for a long moment. Long enough for Dorian to twitch with need. Milo’s smirk is slowly creeping back as he meets Dorian’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he offers.

“No you’re not,” Dorian accuses in a low voice.

“No, I’m not,” Milo admits. “That… wasn’t my intention, though. I barely touched you,” he says, chuckling a little. “I don’t… really understand what I did to cause this.”

Dorian flushes even more. “You didn’t do it on purpose?”

Milo shakes his head, his smirk turning wicked. “No, if I had been _trying,_ I assure you I would have been trying _harder.”_ The hungry look in his eyes says he has more than a few ideas on that particular front.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Dorian warns, as flatly as he can, desperate not to draw even more attention to himself.

Milo laughs, dark and low, and that too goes straight to Dorian’s now throbbing cock. “You’re free to say your watchword, or get up and walk away at any time,” he teases, pulling his arm back and settling his hand on top of Dorian’s thigh.

“You know very well that I _can’t,”_ Dorian says regarding the latter, and gives him another less convicted glare. Milo shrugs, unconcerned, just as Bull comes back to the table. Steeling himself, Dorian sits there stewing with desire, trapped there under the grasp of Milo’s digging fingers and the weight of too many watchful eyes.


End file.
